Beauty Inspires Obsession
by Mishifish
Summary: Harry is condemned to live in a psychiatric ward after the mysterious death of his guardians. The rest will come as it comes. There will be a DMHG thing later...maybe not...we'll see. Give it a go, please R & R...XD


DISCLAIMER: Not mine or my alter egos. Which means that it all belongs to JK Rowling. 

A/N: This one's to Jess who always feeds my Harry Potter addiction at work. To everyone else, please enjoy it. It's been ages since I've decided to write another HP fic. I hope you like it. Please R & R. 

Mish 

* * *

**-- CHAPTER I --**

Harry Potter stared up at the ceiling. The digital alarm clock next to his head glared its annoyingly luminous red, and with an official sounding beep, announced it was officially 12 midnight. Which meant that, officially, Harry Potter was 16.

The ceiling that Harry stared at so intently was covered with randomly placed dots. Sometimes in clusters and sometimes standing in its own solitary state, quite happy to be where they were placed, the black coloured dots continued to plague Harry. Most days, he would stare aimlessly at the dots, trying to make pictures out of them- joining the dots as he was so fond of doing in his days of childhood. Those were the days when magic was just that- magic. None of it ever actually existed. The days when he wished that something, as if BY magic, would save him from his somewhat meaningless existence as a human punch bag, but he knew that it would never happen. 

And then, one day, Harry Potter was saved. He was taken to a world where magic was real, where witches and wizards lived together, just like other humans, and he learned great things. He learnt of goblins, fairies, giants, unicorns and other fantastical creatures. He learnt the art of Charms and Transfiguration and the not so useful, art of Divination. He found that he could fly, and a great flier he was! He was the first person of his age ever to be on the Quidditch team in 100 years. 

He found two friends that he never dreamed of ever having. After living 10 years, friendless, alone and abused, Harry had found two friends who loved him unconditionally. And although they'd had their fights, their off days; they'd shared so many more blissful times of happiness to eliminate all that negativity.

And it was this world that landed Harry in this place, 'Little Whinging Centre of Care for the Mentally Unstable.' _Nice place, this, _thought Harry, still staring at the ceiling, _I bet this is what St Brutus' would have been like if I'd actually gone there. Instead I went to Hogw—wait! That doesn't exist. Yes it does. No Harry, it doesn't. Your mind's just playing tricks again…_

* * *

It was the day he always dreaded. After having a whole year without having to see his loving Aunt, Uncle, and ever loyal cousin Dudley, he would once again be reunited with them for a summer. Maybe it was two weeks. Maybe this time it would be a few days. _As long as I call it home, but like it better someplace else, it's all okay._

However, things could not be okay with Harry. Normally, he was less unhappy about spending an indefinite summer with his mother's sister and her family. This time Harry met up with his relatives with a hole in his heart. Sirius was gone. Harry would never be able to talk to Sirius again. Sirius! Harry's almost last link to his father's memory.

And it was all Harry's fault that Sirius was dead. 

"Hey, mate, we'll get you out of there as soon as we can," reassured Ron.

"You know we will," said Hermione.

Mrs Weasley gave Harry a comforting hug, promising Harry that he would definitely be over to stay at The Burrow. And as Harry bade his farewells to all his friends and his 'new' family, he forgot about Sirius. It amazed Harry that he could forget about someone like Sirius. It was sacrilegious somehow, that Harry could forget about someone as great as his Godfather. The Godfather that gave him permission to go to Hogsmeade, and who sent him the best broomstick in the world, and the one person who gave his life so that Harry could live. His Godfather. 

Sirius was so much like Harry's father, James. Except that Harry knew Sirius. He missed his father, of course, but it wasn't the same way that he could miss Sirius. Harry missed the memory of his father that everybody around him shared. With Sirius, he missed the all of him.

So, as Harry turned from the Weasleys and the other members of the Order and glimpsed the top of his Uncle Vernon's golf hat, his heart panged with sadness because he knew that Sirius could no longer make Harry's life easier with the Dursleys. At the same time, an intense loathing that Harry had never felt before filled his heart. It was the Dursley's fault that Harry hated living with them. And it was their fault that every time they made Harry feel worthless, he would think of Sirius, and he would remember that Sirius was dead. Worst of all, he would remember the way Sirius seemed to fall so gently and beautifully into death, behind that curtain. Without a sound, he'd just left Harry.

* * *

On this particular day, Harry found himself counting the dots on the ceiling. On most quiet days, he'd be able to count the ceiling about 3 times before the nurses came in and took him to lunch. On the wall, he'd scribed the different numbers that he'd managed to count, and he'd never found the same number of dots again. Even though he'd counted them at least 200 times.

_One million, six-hundred and forty-three thousand, seven hundred and twelve. One million, six hundred and forty three thousand, seven hundred and—hey look a fly!_

As Harry's eyes followed the fly around the room, he noticed that it seemed to be growing larger. He blinked hard, telling himself it was his imagination. But as he opened his eyes again, he was sure that the fly had grown to be at least the size of a cat. Harry struggled to roll up in a ball in the corner of his bed, covering his head with a pillow, mumbling over and over, "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real…"

"Wotcher, Harry!"

Harry's head shot up, and there, in his room, stood a lady with the most peculiar hair. It was styled into a lime bouffant and her eyes were red. Her robes were pitch black, with pink lining around the edges, topped with a bright blue collar.

_Who is this... this freak?_ Harry thought, before noticing the irony of his statement. He began to laugh so hard that when he sobered, the lady was staring at him hard.

"Harry?" asked the lady, suddenly unsure of herself. "You are Harry Potter?"

"It's not real," Harry swore to himself, "You're not real. You're not real!"

"Oh Harry, you baboon! They've gotten you so brainwashed. Of course I'm real! Here, touch my hand." She held out her hand to him.

Harry outstretched his own hand to touch and just when he was two centimetres away from hers, he pulled away. "What if you're not real? What if you're just a figment of my imagination, come to mock me?"

"They said you'd say that," sighed Tonks. "Look, there's no way I can help you unless you believe me."

Harry looked uncertain, as though he was fighting with his conscience. But slowly, yet surely, Harry began to reach out again.

"Trust me," she implored.

It seemed to take forever, but when Harry's hand was finally in Tonks' it was as though it were sealed. Magic was real-Until the sound of footsteps came from under the door and Tonks disapparated to save from being caught.

"Tonks! Come back, Tonks!" Harry openly began to weep.

The nurses heard Harry's distressed calls to a 'tonks' and hurried to his room. There they found him clutching mid-air. One of the nurses just sighed and said, "And he was doing so well. Just when we thought he was safe to leave."

"Only the quiet ones do that," said the second nurse.

Harry fell back onto his bed, curling up into foetal position. He hugged his pillow, rocking slightly, muttering "Tonks, Tonks, Tonks…she came…it's all real…" 

"Come now, Harry. Was it just a dream?" asked the first nurse. "You were doing so well; you don't want to go back to that place, do you?"

"It was real. She was real. She- sh- she came to—" Harry never finished his sentence as he was sedated. He slowly lulled his eyes back into slumber. 

"It's always a pity to see them come so close, then they always withdraw back into whatever it was that had them there," was the last thing he heard before his senses shut everything out.

* * *

The Dursleys were dead. 

The day was bright and sunny, and nothing curious was happening in the quietness of Privet Drive. The lawns were finally a lush green after the water restrictions had been lifted. They were clipped and level, manicured by the same gardener who charged ridiculous prices so the pretentious, smarmy owners of the houses of Privet Drive could show off their pristine gardens to the uncaring nobodies who walked passed. There was not a sound to be heard- no cars, no sprinklers, and no grinding whistles from the swings in the park. Even the dogs had stopped barking- not that anybody admitted that their dogs did bark.

It was on this day that a man appeared out of nowhere in Privet Drive. Unbeknownst to all, this man was full of Dark Magic.

The Dursleys were entertaining a Mr. Smibbs. He was the shiny, new and impressionable company executive that the Dursleys' business was trying to form a partnership, an alliance, if you will, with. It seemed that the drills and screws business was going downhill, and Vernon Dursley appointed himself the person to seek a company to join up with them. For financial stability.

"It's a win-win situation," bluffed Vernon, chins wobbling in his nervousness. "I can't see why anyone would want to turn it down." Petunia poured the tea, and Dudley stood, rooted to his designated spot in the lounge as the ornamental son.

"Hmm... I don't know," said Mr. Smibbs, stroking his goatee as he thoughtfully perused through the papers. "I can't be sure that it's a wise investment."

"Surely that's a risk that anyone who's anyone would wish to take. And I can tell you, Mr. Smibbs, that it'd take a very unlucky man to turn down an offer such as this."

"I don't know. It seems to me that drills and screws aren't what they used to be--"

Mr. Dursley, who was in the middle of drinking his tea, spluttered it all over himself as he choked. Standing to clean himself, he said, "I assure you, myself, that a partnership into our business would make any man happy. The drills aren't too popular at the moment, but I'll let you in on a little secret. Up in our factories in Japan, we're developing a prototype of the most fantastic drill, with titanium screws, that'll have every builder, and every do-it-yourself man in Britain... the whole world, I say, wanting one for all their jobs. In fact, we know that as soon as you sign yourself up to be an associate of ours, you need never worry about finance ever again. As I said, it's a sure fire, never lose situation."

"Well, if you put it like that, I guess that only an idiot would turn down an opportunity like that. Okay, you've got me. I'll sign the contract."

And that's when things began to worsen. 

With a loud crash, the front door smashed open. "Potter!" yelled Vernon Dursley, and as he left the living room to charge up those stairs where his 'mentally unstable' nephew was currently in isolation—of his own choice, of course, lest he be attacked by those weirdoes he'd met at the station—all he saw was that strange man, enrobed in black that nobody had ever seen before. That same strange man that had appeared, in total daylight, in the middle of the most meddlesome neighbourhood, quietly unnoticed.

But before he could question this man's rude and uninvited presence in his house, that cold, high-pitched voice uttered something, and after the blindingly green flash, Mr. Dursley fell with a loud thud onto the floor of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Petunia shrieked, alerting the robed man of their company. A swish of robes later, and flickers of unnatural green lights, three more bodies joined Vernon on the floor, too late for them to have done anything to avoid it. Then an odd noise filled the house. It was a shrill sound, but if one listened carefully, then they would instantly identify it as a laugh of a mad-man. 

Harry Potter, who was until that moment, lying on his bed, flicking through the latest edition of _The Daily _Prophet, entertained by the antics of Fred and George Weasley, who had made it onto the front cover after being awarded with the Best New Business Of The Year. However, the loud screams and bangs were hardly something to ignore. And now, with the piercing sound of laughter, wafting through the house, Harry clutched his forehead, overcome with the most incredible pain. Instantly recognising the Dark Lord's laugh, Harry located his wand on his bedside table and ran down the stairs.

* * *

So??? Feedback please…


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